


The Windows to the Soul

by agoodpersonrose



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, David is the Banksy of Schitt's Creek, First Kiss, Fluff, Graffiti, Graffiti as a Love Language, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, and Patrick is on his turf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodpersonrose/pseuds/agoodpersonrose
Summary: Nobody ever noticed in New York, but when David starts painting his graffiti in Schitt's Creek, he has to be a little more careful about it.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 39
Kudos: 158





	The Windows to the Soul

Nobody ever noticed in New York.

All those people, all those places. It could have been anyone, and there was nobody to point fingers at David Rose of all people, low scale socialite and son of the illustrious Moira Rose. As far as David knew there wasn’t even a real list of suspects. Nobody cared about the odd piece of graffiti scattered around the city, only the really good pieces got attention.

Sure, his paintings were noticed. He sometimes spotted them on websites and journals, or online in tweets and instagrams. He had even seen people trying to take credit for his creations, though there seemed to be no census of agreement on his true identity.

And he liked it that way. The graffiti was a quick and easy way to purge his emotions. To get it all out of his system and offer some semblance of control over an existence led by whoever’s bed he was sleeping in at the time.

But here, in Schitt’s Creek, it had become something of a risky hobby.

The first piece he created was painted during his first week in town. His family’s wails of distress were echoing around his head, and he needed some- any excuse, really- to leave the ever-shrinking walls and get out in the fresh air.

So, he packed his night bag; still rattling with full canisters of paint, donned his ‘work clothes’ (tight black jeans and what he used to consider a ‘low-cost’ hoodie already coated in a considerable amount of paint), and headed out into the night.

Stepping out the motel door had been an instant shock to his system; the sounds of the countryside immediately met him, chirping bugs, and rustling leaves.

Then, he looked up, and the stars winked at him from the sky. Thousands upon thousands of shining orbs floating above his head. Stars he had thought only existed in fiction, so used to the blinding lights of the city back home.

David found himself walking around the side of the motel with his head still tilted towards the sky, his footsteps echoing on the empty board walk. But there was nobody around to catch him, and so he had continued until he’d reached the back of the motel. A blank white canvas of wall sitting in front of him just begging to be filled with something.

David barely even registered what he was doing as he sprayed blacks and purples and blues, creating a cacophony of deep colours to mirror the sky above him. Every few minutes he would step back and look up again, check that the stars were still there, and there they always were.

The white spots were easier, slightly smudged to add authenticity, until the wall in front of him was an artist’s depiction of the night sky, and the blank space was filled with life.

It was the first time David let out a breath since he arrived in the town, and he went back to his room, slipping in without drawing the attention of his miserable family members, too wrapped up in their own torment to care much where he had been.

He slept easier than he had in a while that night. Easier than he had in New York, where the rush of the city felt like a constant thrum of movement beneath his skin. Slept until daylight, when the consequences of his actions rose with him.

“David, Alexis, can you come in here please?”

David wakes with a start and groans, digging his head further into the cheapest pillow he has ever rest his head on, and trying to ignore his father’s incessant yelling.

“David, Alexis! Come here please!”

“Stop yelling,” Alexis shouts from her bed, clearly undertaking the same desperate attempt at quiet that David is.

There’s a banging on the door that divides their room with their parents’ which David assumes is his dad hitting it but refusing to do the hard work and simply come through and talk to him.

David groans low and finally pulls the sheet back from his face. He stumbles out of the bed, the scratchy sheets already having done their worst on his skin, and the crust in his eyes dry and itchy.

“What? What is it? What do you want?” he asks as he finally opens the door and steps through. Alexis follows, making a noise of agreement, and leans against the door jam.

“Hey, Dave, have a good night last night?”

David blinks and winces at the sight of Roland Schitt in his parents’ room. “Uh, yeah, sure. Are we done here?”

“Sure, sure, we’re done here,” Roland says, nodding, and David turns to exit again. “Except, actually--” David groans and spins back around to face him. “I am wondering how you’re intending on paying for the damage to the motel.”

“I don’t- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, the games up, we all know it was you.”

“You all know what was me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

David sighs and tips his head back, his eyes screwed shut in frustration. “I really don’t.”

“Roland has come to ask if we know anything about the graffiti that was painted on the back of the motel last night,” Johnny chimes in. “He seems to think one of you two have something to do with it.”

“Um, okay, and why does he think that?”

“Come on, Dave. You don’t think I’m that dumb, now, do you?” Roland asks, crossing his arms against his sweatshirt-clad chest and clicking his tongue.

David hesitates. “Questionable,” he says, squinting his eye.

“How do you know it was one of us?” Alexis chimes in from behind him. “I mean, this is a motel, right? People are passing through town all the time.”

“Well, Alexis has a good point there, Roland,” Johnny agrees, turning to the other man. “I don’t appreciate the implications you’re making against my family.”

Roland fails to look subdued, and instead looks around at the three of them with suspicion. “Okay, so because I’m such a good guy, I’m actually going to let this slide just this once,” he says, pointing his finger with his gaze. “But if it happens again, I will be forced to take it to the council.”

“Quaking in my boots,” David mutters under his breath and looking down at his Ugg’s.

Johnny leads Roland out and closes and locks the door behind him. David and Alexis turn to leave, but before they can, Johnny calls him back. “Son, a word, please?”

“Yeah, what?”

Johnny sighs, his shoulders dropping. “You need to be more careful, David. We can’t afford a court case right now, you understand that?”

“I don’t know why you assume it’s me--”

Johnny narrows his eyes just slightly and David sighs.

“Yeah, fine, I’ll be more careful. Can I go now?”

He’s waved away, and spins to head out the room, but before he can leave, he hears his mother’s choked voice coming from the closet in the corner. _“John? Is our peace restored?”_

“Yes, Moira, you can come out now.”

***

David doesn’t intend to do it again. He really doesn’t; regardless of how he may appear, he understands his family’s hardship, and would never purposefully put them in that position.

But then, after one of the worst days of his life, in which he was both verbally assaulted by a moody queer teenager, and also emotionally assaulted by the truth that he could, if he didn’t tread lightly, lose the companionship of his one friend, and end up alone in this town, without even Stevie to get him through it, he needs something to purge all the emotion out of his body.

The day ends in a truce, and David finds himself relieved and unusually content to sit in the darkened café and drink strong, sour drinks with Stevie and Twyla. But when he gets back to the motel, he can’t sleep.

He just can’t do it.

He tosses and turns for a while, thoroughly annoying Alexis who hisses across the gap between their beds for him to _shut up or leave._

So, without thinking too hard about it, David slips out of bed and leaves, his graffiti bag hanging over his shoulder as he walks swiftly down the road towards the familiar square.

David loops around the back of the café to the small staff car park which is currently deserted. He’s careful, choosing a low-down piece of wall by the corner.

He grabs the white, pink, and black cans from the bag, frowning slightly when he shakes the black one and finds it lighter than he would hope. He gets to work, painting three identical cocktail glasses in a row, hidden slightly by the long grass growing through the concrete at the corner of the building.

He finishes each of them off with a cocktail stick with a tiny green olive, and one sweep of white paint to make the dimensions clearer. He stands back and smiles, nodding, and heads home.

The next day, when David goes into the café for his morning coffee, Twyla gives him a secretive look, and leans over the counter.

“Here you go, David, enjoy!”

“Thank you--”

“I also just wanted to thank you for the,” she looks around the almost empty room slyly. “ _Drinks,_ outside the back. They’re beautiful, exactly what I needed to see when I came in this morning.”

“Oh--” David trails off as he spots Twyla’s eyes getting watery.

“It’s just nice to know that even without Mutt, that- that I have friends here, you know?”

“Um, I’m really glad,” David says softly. “But you won’t, um, you won’t tell, will you?”

Twyla crosses her heart with her finger, an unnecessary move in David’s opinion but he appreciates the meaning. “Your secret is safe with me.”

David leaves the café with a free muffin clutched in a paper bag in his hand, and a small smile etched on his face.

***

David paints another three pieces after that.

When his Dad rushes home to tell them that they’ll be selling the town, and he thinks he’ll be heading back to the New York imminently, David spends hours painting a detailed city skyline across an abandoned building on the outskirts of the town.

In response to the Blouse Barn court case, David travels all the way to Elmdale and paints the silhouette of a busty mannequin around the back of the store as a little tribute to all Wendy was forced to give up.

Finally, on the evening of his parent’s anniversary, a small red rose is sprayed onto the bottom corner of Mutt’s barn.

After that, he tries hard to resist the impulse to put his mark across the town. He has still somehow avoided getting caught by anybody other than Twyla, and Stevie, who never explicitly mentions it but sends him knowing looks every time they overhear a conversation about his pieces.

So, when another piece appears, the town is awash with suspicion, except this time, it’s not David.

“I just think that they’re stepping on my turf, you know?” David complains, leaning on the front desk at the motel and pouting at Stevie who just frowns at him.

“Wait, have you not seen it?” she asks.

“No, why does it matter? Roland came round again this morning to threaten me about a handprint on the general store, which- Why would I even graffiti on my own store? I haven’t even set up the store yet, you really think I would sabotage myself that early? I mean, not that I _need_ to sabotage myself, as we saw yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, getting high and immediately calling the guy you accused of calling your business a failure,” Stevie nods, “Not your finest moment.”

David hums in agreement and groans, putting his hands over his eyes. “So, do you think someone is trying to stop me from opening the store? Do I have any enemies?”

“Too many to even count,” Stevie says drily. “Why do you think someone is trying to sabotage you anyway?”

“Um, they defaced my store!” David exclaims. “How else am I supposed to read that?”

“Okay,” Stevie pulls herself up from her stool and grabs her keys, placing the _Back in 5 Minutes!_ Sign on the front desk and leading David out the front door. “Come with me.”

David complains a little as she leads him to her car and drives him into town, where she pulls up next to the old General Store and leads him over to the side wall.

There’s immediately something different about this piece. First of all, it’s not been painted with spray paint; the lines are too neat the lack of inevitable splattering clues David in immediately to the fact that someone must have actually bought full cans of paints to create this. Either that or a paint palette which, in many ways, is an even funnier image.

Secondly, he notices that while the hand itself is nothing out of the ordinary; painted palm up as if saying stop, there is something distinct about it.

“Is that- is that my hand?” David asks, gesturing at where four silver rings have been added to the painting.

Stevie makes a laughing sound and crosses her arms. “Really? I don’t see the resemblance,” she jokes, earning a nudge from David.

“Who do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, David, truthfully? I assumed it was you.”

David steps closer. The hand is small, situated at the bottom of the wall, and barely reaching up past his hips. But it’s not hidden as he has become accustomed to doing, and he suddenly understands why everyone seems to think it was him.

“Well, I would never paint something in clear sight of the most popular establishment in town, now, would I?”

“Returning to the scene of the crime, huh?” a voice makes David jump from where he had crouched to get a closer look. “This sure isn’t looking good for you, is it, Dave?”

“Okay, this--” David gestures at the hand. “Wasn’t me. Also, no crime has been committed, because I have leased the building, and I will not be pressing charges.”

“You know, I have worked hard on town beautification, at your _mother’s_ request,” Roland continues, nonetheless. “What would she think if she knew it was you who was going around ruining all her hard work?”

“Okay, I literally just told you this wasn’t me,” David interrupts, but is distracted for a moment by the sight of Patrick Brewer exiting the café. His eyes are trained straight on David, and he’s frowning slightly, looking curious as he crosses the road in the opposite direction. “Um, will you excuse me?”

David leaves Roland with Stevie, ignoring his grating voice continuing over his shoulder as he rushes across the road towards the blue shirted man.

“Hey- _Hey!”_ David calls, and Patrick seems reluctant to come to a stop. “Stop, I need to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Patrick tries to appear surprised, but David watches with an eagle eye as he twitches nervously. “Hi, David, did you need something? Was there something wrong with the stuff I filled in on the business license?”

“No, no this isn’t about that,” David says, waving the comment away. “This is about the--” he gestures back at the General Store. “I just thought you should know that there is already someone who- this is somebody's--” he hesitates, but finding no other potential word, bites his lip and sighs. “Turf.”

Surprisingly, Patrick seems almost overjoyed by this comment. “I’m sorry, are you saying that I am stepping on someone’s turf?”

“Yes, I--”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly what you’re referring to, but if I’m overstepping then surely that person would want to talk to me about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” David says, frowning slightly.

Patrick seems to strengthen his stance, tilting his head to the side and crossing his arms. “Nor do I.”

“Okay, so, we’re good then?”

“I guess we are.”

Both of the men stare at each other with narrowed eyes, before David nods slightly.

“O-kay, I--”

“Look,” Patrick interrupts. “I should get back to work, but hey, I’ll let you know when your business license comes back, yeah?”

“I- yeah,” David nods, suddenly feeling as if _he’s_ the one on the tricky side of this conversation, as Patrick turns and continues down the road, waving casually over his shoulder and doing what David thinks is supposed to be a wink as he leaves.

***

They never mention the painting again. Patrick somehow manages to act as if nothing ever happened, while still shooting David looks filled with _something_ that David has never been able to decipher.

He invests in the store, and they open, in the happiest day of David’s life so far, and still, it never comes up.

And then, David’s family forgets his birthday, and Patrick asks him if he wants to get dinner.

David refuses to get his hopes up, but then there is a blue gift bag resting on the table in front of him, and a framed receipt of their first sale at the store, and Patrick drives him home.

He’s right there, blinking in the low light of the car, and David wants to just lean over and kiss him, but he can’t, something holds him back and stops him from doing it.

“Um, I’ll see you at work, tomorrow?” David asks, reaching for the car handle and breaking their gaze so that he can avoid Patrick’s facial expression (disappointed or relieved, he doesn’t know which would be worse).

“Oh, yeah, I’ll see you, David. Hey--” David pauses and bends down to look through the open passenger window. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, Patrick.”

David heads into the motel, and his parents are waiting with their ugly, blue, misspelled cake, which he basically breathes in. The evening is fun, and he goes to bed feeling warm and surrounded by his family’s love.

But then, as soon as he closes his eyes, Patrick’s flash into his head. Brown, and soft, and round at the edges as David failed to give him what he was so clearly hoping for. David tosses and turns a few more times before sighing and clambering out of his bed as quietly as he possibly can.

He shuts the motel door with a soft click and heads back down the road towards the café.

This time, however, when he arrives around the back, a rogue car lingers in the tiny carpark.

David shrugs it off and sets his bag down by the wall. He chooses the adjacent section of wall next to the cocktail glasses he had painted a year before, and sets to work, carefully painting the warm brown eyes of his business partner onto the café brick.

The hissing sound of the spray cans and clicking of the nozzle creates a blanket of sound which covers the approaching footsteps from around the corner of the café.

“You know, the first time _I_ did this, somebody threatened me and told me to get off their turf.”

David startles, and one of his depth lines in the centre of the eye goes wonky. He turns to find Patrick leaning against the corner, his arms crossed against his chest and a small smile on his face.

“Okay, I didn’t _threaten_ you, I just- warned you.”

“You did use the word ‘turf’ though?”

“I never said I was proud of--” David trails off, looking closer. “Is that a _paint brush_ behind your _ear?”_

Patrick blushes slightly and reaches out to pull the thin paint brush away. “It’s for detail,” he says.

David’s smile grows, and he looks around himself, seeing nothing. “Are you- painting?”

Patrick points his thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna see?”

David nods, setting his spray can down on the floor and following Patrick around the back of the building to the opposite side wall. He gapes at the sight that follows; huge brown eyes, decked with thin eyelashes which he must have painted with the brush already tucked back behind his ear, and coated in black paint.

“Is this- Did you paint--?” when David turns around to look at Patrick, he seems bashful, grinning at the floor.

“I mean, it’s not done yet, I just heard your--” he mimes the hissing sound and makes a gesture with his hand. “--and thought I would come to investigate.”

David spins around to look back at the eyes, and to appreciate the pure artistry of them.

“How do you, I mean- do you have cans of--” he trails off as Patrick points to the bulky cans of paint in the corner and picks up a circular paint palette from behind his backpack and holds it up in the air. “You’re like a criminal Bob Ross!”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“You even have the-- Patrick you’re wearing a painting shirt!” David exclaims excitedly, pointing at the light blue, slightly baggy shirt clearly buttoned up over his other clothes, splattered with various colours of paint.

“You’re not exactly one to talk, you’re dressed as a burglar!” Patrick counters, gesturing at David’s dark hoodie and jeans. “You know, if you tried that ‘turf’ speech again while wearing this, I might actually be intimidated.”

“You’re always intimidated by me,” David says, waving his ringed hand around.

Patrick just smiles slightly wiping his hands discreetly on the bottom of his paint shirt. “You really think that?”

“Mhm,” David tilts his body to follow Patrick as he steps closer. “You get all wide eyed and--”

David is forced to stop speaking as Patrick reaches forward, cupping one, hopefully clean, hand around the back of David’s neck, and reeling him in. His lips are soft and warm in the cool night, and he’s trembling slightly all over even as he tries to act cocky and charming.

David hums, and the rumble spreads into Patrick’s lips as he reaches around David’s waist and pulls them flush against each other. He’s about to back David against the wall when the memory of all the wet paint comes to the front of his mind, and he spins them, stepping away from the art piece, and backing Patrick against what he hopes are clean bricks, though he doesn’t have the sense of mind to check right now.

The whine that rises out of Patrick’s throat at this, travels all the way down to the crotch of David’s jeans which are growing increasingly tight by the moment. The situation is worsened when Patrick hitches one leg over David’s hip and pulls them together, and David can feel the mirroring arousal in his own jeans.

“Mm- don’t get used to this,” David mumbles out between soft brushes of lips. “’m in my painting clothes, my normal clothes are far too delicate to--”

David quietens happily when Patrick shushes him, one finger over his lips which moves to trace the line of his cupid’s bow, stroking across his cheek and finally pulling him back in to catch his lips again in a deep, open mouthed kiss.

They remain there for a while longer, until the kisses slow, and shrink into tiny pecks of lips against lips. “We should probably- go- before someone- catches us--” Patrick mutters, his breath warming David’s lips.

“Is necking behind the café a crime now?” David replies, pressing his smile into Patrick’s cheek and softening his lips every so often to kiss him there.

“No,” Patrick hums. “But defacing private property is.”

“Oh,” David pauses. “Oh, yeah, um, can I just- finish it?”

“David--” Patrick says in a critical tone, but he’s smiling anyway.

“I can’t leave a work half finished!” David exclaims, “Look it won’t- it won’t take a second, I just needed to finish your eyelashes and admittedly- There’s not many of those, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Hey!”

“Meet back here in ten minutes?”

Patrick makes a soft sigh when David steps away, releasing his leg which drops back down to the floor heavily. “Okay, David. Ten minutes, and then I’ll take you home.”

“Okay--”

Patrick leans in one more time before David can get too far. “And maybe I’ll need to prove to you that I’m not intimidated by you in the car this time, like I should have done the first time I dropped you off.”

David makes a low “oh” sound in his throat, nods one final time, and, tucking the smile into his cheeks, heads back around the building to finish his piece.

When he returns, Patrick has made similar final edits to his painting of David’s eyes as David has of his artwork of Patrick’s eyes. David looks at it, his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and grins.

Patrick does drive David back to the motel. He turns the car off, turning to David with those same wide eyes from earlier, except this time David doesn’t hesitate in leaning in and catching his lips in a deep kiss.

“David--” Patrick’s voice chokes off in a moan as David turns his attention to the skin under his chin, rough with stubble, and impossibly tempting. “David--”

Patrick is firmer this time, so David relents, pulling back and smiling at him with closed lips.

“I should probably tell you that- uh, this was my first time. With a guy--”

“Oh, o-kay--” David leans back in his seat and waits for more.

“--and I am really- I’m really glad that I ran into you tonight. Because I really- I really wanted this to happen. In fact, that’s sort of why I was at the café, doing the painting, and--"

Patrick trails off, looking at David helplessly, who just nods and leans across to kiss his lips lightly. “Thank you for telling me that,” he says, scratching the back of Patrick’s head just slightly with his nails.

Patrick’s smile grows and he nods bashfully. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Mhm, of course.”

When David sleeps that night, he sleeps contently, his whole body warmed by the memories of Patrick’s eyes.

***

This time, Roland doesn’t come to the motel. Instead, he comes to their store. He steps through the front door and closes it tight behind him, the bell clanging as he sucks air through his teeth.

“Hello, Roland,” Patrick greets him from where he’s lingering behind the counter, shooting David looks across the store which were just about to lead to a _very_ satisfying make out session in the back room before they were rudely interrupted.

“I assume you know why I’m here.”

“To buy something?” Patrick asks, his eyes full of humour which he shares with David. “It is a store, after all.”

Roland does his usual grating laugh, and David narrows his eyes as his good mood begins to dissipate. “Actually boys, I have some bad news.”

David tuts, “Did you still not find a suitable hairdresser?” he asks, heading over to join Patrick behind the till and pleased to find his chest rumbling with silent laughter.

“Jocelyn cuts my hair,” Roland responds. “I’m sure she’d be happy to do yours too, Dave--” he trails off, suddenly forcibly shifting his facial expression to make him appear angrier. “No, I actually came to inform you that your presence is required at a Council hearing.”

“Oh, and why’s that?” Patrick asks, remaining as calm as ever.

“It’s about the graffiti that has been springing up around town. You two are our prime suspects.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about--” David starts to say, but Patrick interrupts.

“Sure, we can head over now, if you’d like?”

Roland seems surprised, but doesn’t argue, nodding and gesturing for them to follow him out of the store, which Patrick does, while David follows him like a lost duckling.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” he tries to murmur, but Patrick just takes his hand a shoots him a bad wink as they cross the street and head down the pavement.

“They gave in immediately, I already got a confession,” Roland announces as they enter town hall.

“No, he didn’t,” Patrick says immediately, not letting his hand drop from David’s. “We hear you have some questions for us.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Ronnie says, from where she’s got her legs propped up on the desk, and a takeaway cup of coffee in her hands. “I happen to like the paintings. It’s not like they’re tagging things.”

David raises an eyebrow and looks around the empty room to his mother, perched on her own desk and looking wholly unconcerned. “Roland why have you dragged my only son in here to accuse him of a crime you have no substantiation that he committed.”

“I know it was them, Moira,” he says. “two sets of brown eyes have shown up on the side of the café.”

“Is brown an unusual optical colour?” Moira returns, shrugging.

“Yeah, how do you know it wasn’t me?” Ronnie asks.

Patrick turns to Roland and shrugs. “She has a point, Roland. And anyway, we have witnesses that will say that we weren’t there last night.”

“Yeah, we do--” David adds. “We do?”

“Well, after dinner I dropped you off at the motel around ten, I assume your family will be able to vouch for you, and I was at Ray’s.”

“How do we know you didn’t leave again after that?”

“Well, I sat down and watched two episodes of Desperate Housewives with Ray, and then turned in around twelve. Is that okay with you?”

Ronnie barks a laugh behind her hand as Roland blinks and looks clueless. “Yeah? Well, we’ll let the courts decide that I think.”

“Oh, let it go, Roland,” Ronnie says as she stands up. “We’re not getting the police involved in a harmless bit of graffiti.”

Roland looks very much like he does want to get the police involved in a bit of graffiti, but he doesn’t say another word as Patrick nods as if he had planned all of this out. “If that’s everything, we actually have a business to run.”

The room is silent, though Moira winks across the room at David as he’s dragged out by the hand into the street.

“How are you so cool about this?” David asks as they step out into the sunshine.

“I told you, David, it takes a lot to intimidate me.”

***

David and Patrick agree between them that after that close call, they probably shouldn’t get too comfortable pasting graffiti all over the town. Not only for the fear of getting caught, but also for fear of running out of room for their art.

They stop the pattern altogether, getting used to their life together without the artwork.

This is why David is so surprised to find a second car in the parking lot of Rattlesnake Point when he pulls up on the night of the proposal. He had snuck out of Patrick’s apartment after a few rounds of celebratory sex, dropped by the motel to pick up his paint bag, and driven up the road to the now familiar, yet comparatively darker, hiking spot.

“You’re getting predictable Bob Rose.”

“Bob Rose? Really?” David asks, spinning on his heel to find his boyfriend- _fiancé-_ leaning against the rock that David had spotted on the walk back. He has his paint palette in hand, and the brush behind his ear, and is grinning widely as he flips a second brush and catches it neatly. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I’m sure. Making sure we left our mark.”

Patrick gestures to the rock, where a red rose has been neatly painted in various shades.

“You call me predictable?” David asks, shouldering his way past and shucking his bag off, and rooting through it for his paint canisters. “A rose? Really?”

“Seemed like the best way to celebrate our future together. What were you planning on doing?” Patrick asks, taking a seat on one of the lower rocks and watching carefully.

“Watch and learn.”

David carefully sprays the outline of a familiar hiking boot under the rose, the grey fabric and the dark laces and soles. He adds definition with the white and black cans and adds the final touches before sitting back on his heels and looking closely at where the rose is now placed neatly inside the boot.

“There, better,” David murmurs. “Now we’re both on there.”

Patrick is kissing him before he can straighten up fully, and David whines a bit at the twinge in his back as he stands. “I love it, it’s perfect,” Patrick murmurs against his lips.

The next day, Patrick brushes off his tiredness as nerves from the show, and later due to a night of celebrating his new engagement. Which is technically true, as the painting itself prompts another round of ‘celebrating’ as soon as they get home.

Nobody ever suspects anything different.

***

After that, there aren’t many occasions that warrant a new tag somewhere in town. Life quietens down, what with the wedding, and the Roses leaving.

The ceremony is beautiful, with both David and Patrick grinning radiantly as they exit the hall and walk down the front steps. Into the sun, and ready to start their new lives together.

Two tiny roses, painted in wildly different styles, appear in the corner of the Town Hall only a few days later, their thorned stems tangled tightly together.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this!! I've been so bogged down with uni assessments recently but I have been working on this idea for a while and got the bulk of it edited today, finally!
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments! 👀


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